Back to Normal
by Celeste.J.Evans
Summary: My take on how John Watson and Sherlock Holmes will be reunited. Based on the S3 Teaser.


**I've been stewing on this one since I saw the Season Three teaser and I figured it was time to write it down. This is my take on how John and Sherlock will be reunited. It's not slash just bromance. This is also my first time writing anything for Sherlock so I would love some feedback.**

**Don't forget to check out **madamewriterofwrongs .blogspot .com **for more writing from the Madame.**

**Anyways, here you are (and PLEASE review). Oh, and follow me on twitter **vatrask

**Enjoy 3**

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He stood in the doorway of the restaurant and quickly scanned the room, fighting any urge to linger on the other patrons. When he set his sights on the man across the room he swallowed. It had been a while since they were in the same room together let alone on the brink of speaking to each other. No, his heart was not pounding, though he measured each beat and they registered far above normal. Damn his mind. And damn him. He looked at the man – really looked and allowed himself to profile once again. But the only signals he got back were mixed. He had let himself go but he had moved on and was prosperous. He was waiting for someone – that one was obvious – but beyond that, any deeper meaning was clouded. Maybe he was rusty. No, he wasn't rusty. He knew within ten seconds of stepping into the room who was there on a date, who was cheating, who was proposing, and who was secretly thinking of jumping their date's bones right there in the restaurant – the woman in the pink dress with the long legs was looking much too eager. It had to be something with the man before him. The moustache! Obviously. Was it even a moustache? I looked as though a ferret had crawled up and taken residence on his upper lip. He didn't like it. Well, the only way to tell him that was to step up. Oh god.

With a deep breath and a long, heavy exhale, Sherlock Holmes stepped forward.

He was looking at the menu, trying anxiously to decide what to eat. John Watson hated when people took too long to decide what they wanted. It wasn't life or death it was food. Sherlock always knew precisely what he wanted – even if it was the most ridiculously completely thing he'd ever heard. No, stop it, he chided, Sherlock's gone so there's no point in dwelling on it now. Now he needed to focus. Now he needed to decide. She would be here soon. He genuinely liked her – maybe he was even growing to love her – but there was a nagging voice in the back of his head wondering if Sherlock would approve of her. Never mind remember her name. He'd have picked out on of her secrets or flaws and ruined the whole relationship by now. And that really bothered him.

He barely registered the towering presence beside him. Sometimes the wait staff could be a little too close. He continued to stare at his menu.

"What have you got on your face?"

He rolled his eyes. "It's called a moustache, Sherlock; some men can grow facial hair."

And then the world stopped and John Watson looked up and just for a moment, his best friend was standing there. Just for a moment that annoying, curly-haired man was standing before him in his signature coat and scarf. And then that moment became another and another. He still couldn't believe his eyes.

"Hello John." He didn't realize how much he'd missed that voice until now. Oh god, what was happening?

"Hell-" he tried again, familiar annoyance seeping into his bones. How he'd missed that feeling. "Hello? You're going to start this conversation with 'hello'?"

Sherlock shrugged and John wanted to strangle him. "Well that's generally how normal people greet each other isn't it?"

He looked back at his menu, his voice much calmer than his pounding heart. "You're dead."

"That's not normally the response to 'hello'."

Oh, he dropped his menu then, slamming it on the table because the man before him was just so, infuriatingly…_alive. _"And what am I supposed to say? 'Oh hello Sherlock, welcome back from the dead. Please have a seat'?"

"Don't mind if I do." The taller man pulled out the chair opposite his friend and sat down, reaching for the menu to peruse more as a distraction rather than a decision. He knew what he wanted.

"Oh my god." John wiped a hand over his face. "No, no, you know that this is? I'm hallucinating. I am imagining that my flat mate is sitting here instead of my date. As if people didn't talk about me already." He leaned forward, ignoring the lack of acknowledgement from him friend. "I buried you in the ground. Do you ever just stay put?"

He casually folded the menu over but he still wasn't looking at his friend. Sherlock Holmes was no coward but the look of betrayal and disbelief in Watson's eyes scared him. Just be casual. "Oh, Mary had to cancel, by the way. Had to work late. Said she'd call you later."

"What did you do to her?"

Sherlock shook his head. "I did nothing to her. I simply overheard the host taking her phone call." He returned to his menu. "I told him I'd deliver her message."

"I bet you did."

"I went by the see Mrs. Hudson. She says she hasn't heard from you in months."

John shifted in his seat. He felt guilty for not keeping in touch but it was the accusatory tone in his friend's voice that made him uncomfortable. "Well she's no longer my landlady now is she? Now are you going to tell me why you're back – _how_ you're back?"

The detective placed the menu on the table and cocked his head. "Why?"

"Why what?"

"Why is she no longer your land lady?"

"I moved out of the flat after…" the man was sitting right in front of him and he still couldn't say _you died._ He cleared his throat "well after your funeral and how can you be…alive? I watched you die."

"You thought you watched me die." He folded his hands and leaned forward like it was a smug little game of his. He wanted to punch the man. He was _alive_. "It was all a slight of hand, actually. I few distractions here and there. It was simple really."

"Simple?" John's voice rose but he didn't really care. How could he-and he just. That infuriating man. "You let me believe that you were _dead_ and you call that simple?" He sat up further in his chair, using all his restraint not to leap across the table and strangle him to death. "You come waltzing in here and assume that everything will go back to normal." He used his hands for emphasis or else he might do something he'd later regret. Much later; still. "I don't understand you, you lunatic."

Sherlock just sat there and blinked while his friend huffed and growled, somewhat lost in this department. What was the problem? "Well I don't see why things can't go back to normal. We can move back into the flat; Mrs. Hudson says no one's rented it since you left. Which was very rude, by the way. I left you a perfectly good flat at a decent rate in a good area. Very rude of you to just throw it away."

"You are…." John gaped, his voice rising "unbelievable. I don't care about the bloody flat. I care that you were dead and now you're not and I don't understand. What _are_ you?" Chest heaving, John Watson rose from the table, not meeting the eye of any patron staring at the bickering couple. He was sure it looked like that but he couldn't bring himself to care. Trying his best to stay calm he buttoned his blazer and looked everywhere but at the man who stood. "I can't be here right now."

Sherlock reached out to his friend. "John"

He wasn't expecting it. He should have seen it coming. A good punch in the cheek was exactly what John would do. And it made him see stars even as he looked up at his friend. He thought it best to stay on the floor even though the entire restaurant had paused to watch their lover's quarrel. No doubt it looked like that but he wasn't in the mood to care. Especially when he caught his friend's eyes and they looked back at him with such confusion. His voice was soft, he was the only one who heard him mutter "I'm glad you're back, Sherlock." And then John Watson was gone, straightening his jacket and turning curtly towards the door. He walked away.

Sherlock sat there on the floor, doing his best to ignore his throbbing cheek. The man packed a punch when he wanted to. It left him reeling certainly, throwing all his senses off balance. He smelt her perfume long ago but it still came as a shock when he felt a lithe pair of hands come to his shoulders to sit him up. "He's just in shock. He'll come 'round."

"Molly."

A host jogged up to them but the detective was still staring at Molly, his mind struggling to catch up with reality. "Sir, are you alright?"

"Can you get us an ice pack please?" Good ole Molly. Sweet, reliable Molly. She took charge just when he needed her to. What was she even doing here? Pink lips and a comfortable dress said 'dinner alone'.

"Would you like me to phone the police, have the man arrested?" Sherlock shook his head but Molly glared at the host before he could speak.

"Just the ice pack please?"

"Right away." He bowed his head in apology, hasting to the kitchen. "Anything you'd like is free of charge."

The detective recovered as Molly pulled him to his feet, guiding him back to the table he'd briefly shared with his former flatmate. "Come sit."

"I'm fine, Molly." He sat down across from her, avoiding her eyes by unbuttoning his jacket.

"No you're not." He looked up at her then. How did she get so insightful? It wasn't a recent thing, he decided. She'd always known him and he always trusted her and she always took him by surprise. "John'll come 'round sooner or later. He just needs time."

"I'd prefer if it was sooner rather than later. I hate waiting."

She smiled at him like he was the only man in the restaurant. "I know. You've always been so impatient with people. Let me get you a cuppa." She raised her hand to the waiter but he didn't see her.

He slapped the table but regretted it when she jumped – never mind the handful of patrons that turned to look at him. "I don't need _tea_ I need…" he took a useless, calming breath, stewing on the _what should be_. "I need"

"You know, he came 'round to my flat just after we did your funeral." She spoke so matter of factly; not like John had. He supposed it was because Molly had known his little secret. Maybe Molly was a little more put together than he'd realized. She held her own. "He was a bit drunk. Talking about some sort of military thing I didn't really understand."

"He always ends up talking about his glory days when he's had too much whiskey." He mused, more to himself. Reminding himself that he did, indeed, know John Watson. "Rum, it's relationships; Vodka is work; beer is…" he looked at her "me." He was _not_ blushing. He was just…admitting that his friend couldn't stand him wasn't easy. "When he's particularly upset with me."

Molly nodded. "I could smell beer on his breath."

Oh. "I must have mixed them up then." Maybe it had been too long. Maybe he didn't know his friend anymore. Perfect. Now he was going to end up sulking.

"Then he started talking about how you weren't dead. How you must have faked it somehow. How no matter what anyone said he would believe that you were innocent." He looked down and found her unconsciously rubbing her wrist like the memory of a bruise. "He was very adamant that no matter what anyone tells me I should just smile and nod because we knew the truth." She smiled at him but he was still staring at her wrist. "Sherlock Holmes is a good man."

"Did he hurt you?" _Yes_,_ he nearly broke my wrist when I told him to let you go_.

"No. But you did." Her eyes widened and he tried his best not to roll his eyes. He needed to focus on her words. "You hurt him, I mean. I wouldn't suggest that you hurt me I mean"

"Molly, what _do_ you mean?"

Right; she took a deep breath and the air grew still again. "By leaving. You hurt him by leaving." Sherlock sat back in his chair, absorbing her words until he made proper sense of them. "He missed you. I don't think he ever really gave up hope." She watched him replay John's actions in his mind. The shock and confusion in his eyes when he knocked him to the ground. He'd almost given up hope and then the detective returned without a single bit of warning. "But you left and it broke his heart."

That seemed to snap something back into place and his face set in a stern, nonchalant face. His professional mask. "Well I'm back now so everything can go back to normal."

"It might be too late for 'normal'." She tried, gently. She wanted to slap him for honestly thinking that everything would go back to the way it used to be. But at the same time, she wanted that, too.

"I hope not."

Later – much later, after a proper meal with Molly who remained sweet and silent – the detective climbed the stairs of 221B Baker Street in the silence and the darkness. Now that he was back this was his home and he'd reclaim it with or without John Watson. He opened the door into more darkness and sighed instead of flipping on a switch.

"I knew you'd come back here."

He jumped a foot in the air, turning on the lights as he steadied his heartbeat. There, sitting in the armchair like he'd always belonged there, was John Watson, staring coldly at his friend. "Jesus, John." He dropped his coat and scuttled around the now empty department, ignoring the incredulous stare from the man in the chair. "What are you doing sitting in the dark?"

"I was waiting for you."

"Is this what it's like?"

"What what's like?"

"To come home and find me just sitting there?" Yes, he'd said _home_. John nodded. "It's frightening."

"You still scare me, Sherlock." He paused and watched his friend stand and approach him with a dangerous, angry look in his eyes. "Because I don't think you realize just how mental you are. You died." He opened his mouth but John swatted at him to keep him quiet. "I know you didn't _really_ die. But there was a funeral and an obituary. I had reporters banging down my door for months. And you weren't there. You were dead. And now you come in after all this time and just expect everything to be okay. And it's not, Sherlock."

Honestly, he couldn't understand what was so difficult about the whole concept. "Of course it is. I was dead and now I'm not. We can both move back into the flat and go back to solving crimes."

"Go back…?" John stared at Sherlock for a long time, too long, trying to decipher _him_. It was unnerving to say the least. Especially when the doctor sighed and pinched the bridge of his nose in frustration. "I could punch you right now."

He smirked. "You already did that."

John didn't find it all that amusing. "Well I want to do it again. Go back? Are you mad?"

He was beginning to get it, now. Sherlock Holmes might actually be understanding why his friend was so upset with him. "Okay."

"Okay, what?"

"Punch me."

John blinked. "What?"

The detective took a deep breath; apparently he'd have to spell it out. Fantastic. "I-I hurt you John. And I'm sorry. Do what you need to do to make yourself feel better."

John Watson paused, and stared at his friend like this conversation wasn't actually happening. "You would just let me hit you?"

"Well I'd prefer not to be punched but in such occasion as this" and there was a moment when Sherlock stared at John and he _got it_. Completely and utterly understood what his fake suicide had cost the doctor. How much it had hurt. And he couldn't take it back. So he moved forward. "I surrender myself to you, John."

Oh that infuriating man. That horrible, idiotic, impossible man. John could strangle him. He should beat him to a pulp for what he'd been put through because of the world's only consulting detective. But all he could think was: _he's alive._ He threw his arms around his friend and squeezed hard because he was dead and then he wasn't. He wouldn't be alone anymore. His friend, his partner in (solving) crime was alive. Sherlock was so relieved that John was forgiving him and not punching him that he squeezed back. Laughing when the doctor muttered "I'm not gay."

"I know."

And then they pulled away, back to a respectable distance, straightening their coats and clearing their throats. "I'm…uh… very glad you're back."

"Me too." They shared a brief, sideways smile before Sherlock clapped his hands and returned to business. "Now, where are your bags?"

John rolled his eyes and walked into the kitchen for a glass of water. There wasn't much else in the flat in terms of sustenance. "Upstairs, I've already unpacked."

"Fantastic. Then you can help me get unpacked."

He didn't even look back at the detective. "No."

"What? Why not?"

"I unpacked by myself and you can unpack by yourself." He finished the glass in one gulp and set it on the counter. "Besides, I'm meeting Mary in twenty minutes for a late film."

Sherlock rolled his eyes as John grabbed his coat from the chair and tugged it on. "Oh right, Mary."

The doctor sighed. "What now?"

"Nothing. Just…" He smirked "you like her."

"Yes of course I like her she's very…amiable."

"Amiable?"

"Yes I" oh he was teasing him now, was he? Stupid git. He smiled as he grabbed his keys and headed for the door. "Shut up. I'll be back later."

"Pick up some milk?"

"'Course." John Watson paused in the doorway, observing the detective in his natural habitat. This place had been too empty without him prattling on about some rant or project that just _had_ to be done at four o'clock in the morning. That's why he'd left. But now, all of a sudden, Sherlock was back and even though the flat was bare of any personality it was still theirs and he was glad things would go back to normal. "And clean up this place. It's an absolute pig sty." The pair smiled at each other before John closed the door, leaving Sherlock to settle back into their home.


End file.
